


Auspex

by EmptyHouse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Badass Neville, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Character Development, Character Study, Complete, Drabble, Gen, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Magic, Metaphors, One Shot, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Self-Discovery, Storms, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:58:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmptyHouse/pseuds/EmptyHouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if sensing his fear of the world, of the ground that had always been safer for a boy as unfortunate as Neville, the storm gurgles and roars at him and he shivers. Each clap of thunder means to intimidate him back to the place where he had stayed comfortably, quietly, and without a challenge for the entirety of his life. In that place, he was forgiven when he fell flat. It was warm and sheltering and familiar, but by no means right. Returning to that place after all that went on in the past year... It just wouldn't be right. He is past the point of no return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auspex

The shingles are uncomfortable, especially due his jeans. They are old and ripped in their most abused places – the knees, mostly, though the back pockets were battered enough to hold neither wand nor wallet – and worn thin by time. No longer a strong, protective material, he isn't sure why he has kept them. They are an artifact of the past year, and even a well-aimed tergeo had barely been able to take the blood and the dirt out of the rugged material.

His feet hurt, too, as he walks across the roof of his grandmother's house. It is still damp from a summer storm, not entirely passed. Even in July, the Isles remain soggy. How long ago had the drought been? He thinks back to it – the grass that looked like rolling hills of wheat as the Hogwarts Express carried him home the on September 1st of his fifth year. Since that moment, too much has happened. He stands here a changed man, only one year later. A man – not a boy. Now, he can brave the world, he admonishes. As he sits upon the gable that he had hiked in earnest towards, he peers out over the sloping plains that surround the solitary house that he has lived in for as long as he can remember – a house that he still cannot call his – and he knows that he is suddenly different.

Another storm is rolling in; the dark, looming clouds grumble in the distance and flicker an affirmation of Neville's suspicions. Had he only spotted the brewing tempest before he had climbed out of the bathroom window, before he had shimmied out onto the sloped gable. There is no turning back for the Longbottom; it had taken so much effort to get up so high, so away from the nagging world below, and Neville doesn't want to descend from his temporary heaven. He isn't ready to go back yet.

As if sensing his fear of the world, of the ground that had always been safer for a boy as unfortunate as Neville, the storm gurgles and roars at him and he shivers. Each clap of thunder means to intimidate him back to the place where he had stayed comfortably, quietly, and without a challenge for the entirety of his life. In that place, he was forgiven when he fell flat. It was warm and sheltering and familiar, but by no means right. Returning to that place after all that went on in the past year... It just wouldn't be right. He is past the point of no return.

“No!” Neville bellows at the story, at the sky, at the universe which laughs so heartlessly at him. “I won't go back down! I cant anymore! I can't give up!” That is the conventional thing to do – the reasonable thing to do. Everyone expects it of Neville, as they always have, for he has never made a habit of rising to the occasion. Neville simple hasn't been exceptional, and they've all accepted it. Not every man can shine, they think. Not every man can rise above his weaknesses and inadequacy, and bothering Neville about his shortcomings would be cruel. After all, he's worthless.

And that... _that_ is the rope about to snap. The rope that ties him down – down to the ground, down to his fears, down to the meager expectations he has for himself. It needs to break – he is needed. Has Neville ever been needed before...?

The storm has come. It is upon him in its full fury; lightning canters through the air, each flash a prequel to the bellowing howl of the portentous clouds above. Rain falls in a thick curtain, drenching Neville to the bone. Once upon a time, he had been terrified of thunderstorms. Their magnificence and power still made him shudder beneath his sheets. He would cling to the yielding cotton, and soon sweat would drench his feverous body like rain would drench the world.

He does not flinch. Instead, he allows the storm to envelop him and he laughs. This marks the first time he has allowed himself to be caught in the passion of a good summer rain, and it is a terrible, foreign thrill. It is as if the storm celebrates him, a thundering applause for his bravery, his wit, his cunning mind. Perhaps this is what it's like to be the exalted Harry Potter.

The storm disappears just as quickly as it had come. When it moves on, a slight feeling of emptiness nuzzles its way down into deepest pit of Neville's stomach. For a moment, he had felt what he was meant to be – or perhaps what his parents had once been – and it was a beautiful sensation. Neville has always admired those absurd stories – those ones where people are caught in sweet, warm rain and have epiphanies. Yes, he admonishes, he is a romantic. And no, he has never expected it to happen to him. But it has, and that's wonderful.

He shivers involuntarily as a breeze, chasing after his storm now in the distance, catches him off-guard. Really, he's lucky that it hasn't carried him off the gable; Neville's body is in a state now between awkward fat child and strapping man, and he has grown lanky without filling out. He is little more than a kite, little more than a bird, but he does not know how to fly and has no intention of falling. So, he holds onto the roof and sighs.

Neville stares longingly after the clouds as they bypass him, watches the flecks of lighting on the horizon soundlessly. From his perch, he recalls memories he had intruded upon in his grandmother's Pensieve. He hadn't understood at the time, but he still remembers it. White explosions of spells in a battle hosted by dark clouds, a battle in the sky. The night he had lost his parents to the madness. He shook it off- he had learned to do it well. That was nothing like a battle. It was a sudden summer thunderstorm, and nothing more. In his mind's eye, Neville could see himself turning the end of a cord, frayed and broken, over in his hands.

He shakes it off – he has learned to do it well. That was nothing like a battle; it was a sudden summer thunderstorm on the moors and nothing else. In his mind's eye, Neville can see himself turning the end of a cord, frayed and broken, over in his hands. Suddenly, the words of Hermione, her voice low as she spoke to her two best friends, came to mind. He had intruded on the words a year ago, but it feels now as if they were meant for him.

_“Everything's going to change now, isn't it?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short oneshot. This, amongst a couple others I'm going to post, were for a challenge that I entered a while ago on fanfiction. Might make them into a series here. Thanks for the read!


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